


Recovery

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: shkinkmeme, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AGOS ending AU. Moriarty dies before Holmes and Watson escape the factory, and much time and attention are devoted to Holmes and his injuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**shkinkmeme**](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=23323948&#t23323948): _H/W (with eventual, optional H/W/Mary)_  
>  After Watson puts an end to the Holmes-torture by dropping a tower on it, and after he has that gentle little moment with Holmes, but before they get the hell out of there, Watson locates Moriarty where he's trapped and ends him, violently.  
> As there's no need for further planning and scheming, their time in Switzerland at Mycroft's is instead spent in quiet, sweet recovery, proper treatment of Holmes' injuries, and a necessary alternative to sex-havin', what with the whole ghastly hook injury handicap. I'm thinking "kissing where it hurts" happens, myself, but I'm flexible.  
> If author is down with OT3, I would love it if Mary joined them at that point, but H/W will also do.
> 
> I took some liberties with the prompt (there is a bit of further planning and scheming, for instance), but that's the general gist of the thing.
> 
> The torture occurs only in the first section of the story (and results in offscreen character death). The H/W (the m/m element) is implied/mentioned, not present in explicit sexual acts.

Firing the cannon at the sniper had been an impulse, the only means of defense at hand. Watson had not thought through the implications, so when he rose to survey the damage, he was shocked to find the tower had collapsed directly upon the building he had been trying to reach.

Alarmed, he hurried, nay, ran toward where Holmes might be buried in the rubble, his bad leg be damned. A cascade of brick offered a convenient means to enter the building, provided it did not collapse under him, and he had to spend several valuable minutes carefully picking his way up the debris.

As soon as he cleared the wall, he called Holmes' name and was relieved beyond measure to hear a response, albeit weak and dazed-sounding. He found Holmes near the edge of the wreckage and, while Holmes had emerged relatively unscathed from the building collapse, he had an alarming wound in his shoulder, the hook that caused it still embedded in his flesh.

Watson removed the hook and Holmes immediately covered the wound with his hand, ostensibly to stanch the bleeding, as he made a quip that Watson barely even heard. He quickly checked Holmes for any life-threatening injuries or any injuries that would inhibit their escape, and found none save his shoulder.

Holmes still seemed dazed as Watson helped him rise and guided him over to an intact portion of the wall. "Was he with you?" Watson demanded as he helped Holmes sit.

"Moriarty? Yes. In that direction," Holmes said, waving vaguely toward a deeper pile of rubble.

For a moment Watson considered merely leaving it at that, hoping that Moriarty did not fare so well as Holmes, and escaping as quickly as they could. But the possibility of Moriarty alive just a few feet away was too ideal to pass up, so Watson went fishing.

"Watson, don't. We need to leave," Holmes said as Watson moved away from him, but Holmes did not do anything to stop him, which Watson interpreted as tacit approval.

A tray on wheels against the wall miraculously survived unscathed, and on it was an array of instruments including a scalpel. Watson took the scalpel and retrieved the hook he'd removed from Holmes' shoulder, then slowly surveyed the heap, watching for movement and listening for breathing.

A guttural groan drew his attention and he feverishly threw bricks and bits of metal aside, even using the hook to help clear the way, until he had unearthed the professor. Moriarty wasn't entirely conscious, no doubt the result of a blow or two to the head. Watson backhanded him to startle him awake.

"You," Watson said with loathing, feeling a surge of fury begin to sweep him along. "You are too troublesome to live. But first, a taste of what you have done to Holmes."

Holding the scalpel in his fist like a dagger, Watson drove it deeply into Moriarty's right shoulder, relishing the man's agonized cries. Moriarty tried to fend him off, but he was almost immobile as a result of being pinned by a few beams and Watson's bloodlust was such that one hand trying to claw his eyes out did nothing to deter him.

With that wound inflicted, Watson decided that there needed to be symmetry and he plunged the scalpel into the left shoulder as well. When Moriarty tried to speak, Watson laid the flat edge of the scalpel over his lips. "No words from you. In fact, I think I know how to put an end to that."

This time he chose the hook over the scalpel. A moment to plan the trajectory, then he drove the hook into one side of Moriarty's neck and out the other, neatly passing through the vocal cords so he could not speak or scream. Moriarty's breaths gurgled in his throat and his skin began to grow pale from blood loss.

Watson left the hook in his fish and stiffly backed away from the spectacle. Moriarty was as good as dead, and he deserved to suffer a little before he died.

Only then did Watson return to Holmes' side and help him regain his feet, taking Holmes' left arm over his shoulder and following Holmes' directions out of the room.

~~~

The journey from the factory to Switzerland was one Watson never wished to repeat, and one that would live in his nightmares for a long time to come. For Holmes died, resuscitated only because Watson had the adrenal gland concoction in his pocket; Watson would be forever haunted by what would have happened otherwise.

After Watson had tended his ankle, Holmes rose and spoke in low tones to Tamas, passing him a small packet. Tamas left the train soon after, leaping from the car to continue his journey in a different direction. Holmes would say only that he was going to London.

Watson was more concerned with the way Holmes shivered despite Watson's jacket draped over his shoulders. Also worrying was Holmes' lack of resistance when Watson sat him down against a wall and sat close beside him to keep him warmer. Simza sat on Holmes' opposite side when she wasn't standing at the door, monitoring their progress.

It was late afternoon when the train slowed as it approached a large station. They jumped down before they could be discovered. Holmes stumbled as he landed and fell sideways into a snowdrift, immediately becoming frighteningly still.

It was a few heart-stopping moments before Watson could hurry to his side and turn him on his back. Holmes' complexion was grey, his skin reddened where it had pressed against the snow, but he was still breathing. He roused quickly when Watson lightly slapped him and he stood just as quickly, then wavered on his feet and would have fallen had Watson not grabbed his shoulders.

They made quite a sight as they staggered into the town, Watson in his shirtsleeves, Holmes wearing Watson's jacket over his shoulders and one of Sim's scarves around his neck to hide the blood, with Watson and Sim protectively hovering on either side. When they drew close to the railway station, Holmes ducked into a nearby alley. Watson reclaimed his jacket and asked, "What shall I say?"

"Get tickets for Meiringen. And send a telegram to my brother with the time we'll arrive."

"I hope you have money for this, because I certainly don't."

"You mean you didn't take Moriarty's?" Holmes asked wryly. "My right back pocket," he said and turned so Watson could reach the pocket.

"They didn't search you?" Watson unbuttoned the pocket and found several folded bills.

Holmes shuddered before answering faintly, "Thankfully, no."

When Watson returned from his errand it was with news of a three-hour wait ahead of them before their train departed. Holmes elected they spend that time concealed in the alley but Watson refused. "You need to be inside. Or didn't you notice that you've been shivering for hours?"

They might have spent the hours arguing about where to go had Sim not known of a small café on the city's outskirts that catered to the itinerant with no questions asked. So they had a meal and a pot of tea and when the proprietress saw the makeshift bandaging on Holmes' shoulder she insisted they use whatever they needed of the supplies she had on hand to tend his wound. Watson offered her the rest of the money in thanks, but she would not hear of it.

After the brief time to clean up, the trio that boarded the train no longer looked quite so disreputable, just utterly exhausted. Sim curled up on one of the benches and fell asleep to the rocking of the train. Holmes sat on the opposite seat, Watson beside him, and stared blankly out the window.

"It will be hours before we arrive. Why don't you try to sleep?"

"I can't," Holmes said wearily.

"Why-- oh," Watson remembered mid-question that the one thing they had not been able to obtain from the kind hostess was any sort of pain reliever. "I'm sorry."

Holmes shrugged with his good shoulder.

Despite what he'd said, Holmes was dozing by the time the train pulled into Meiringen, but he woke almost immediately when Watson touched his arm. He was quite unsteady on his feet and nearly tripped going down the steps to the platform.

A sleigh and Mycroft's man Carruthers were waiting for them outside the station. Watson exchanged a few cursory words with Carruthers as he helped Holmes climb up, otherwise the circuitous ride up to the hotel was silent.

It was nearer to dawn than midnight by the time they reached Mycroft's rooms. Mycroft himself directed them to their beds, his eyes examining each of them and no doubt reading every detail of their harrowing journey in the splatters on their clothes and the lines of their faces.

Watson helped Holmes into bed and considered checking his wound again before retiring. "Stop hovering, Mother Hen," Holmes chided him quietly. "If you're going to keep troubling me, at least be useful and find some morphine."

Once Mycroft found out morphine was needed, it appeared as if by magic. Watson was generous with the dose to make up for the earlier lack and waited until Holmes was sound asleep before climbing into bed beside him.

It was not a surprise that Holmes remained abed after the others had risen; Watson looked him over before going in search of food and found his color already looked a little better for the warmth and rest.

Watson was assuring Mycroft that Moriarty was no longer a concern when a disheveled Holmes appeared, a dressing gown draped awkwardly over his shoulders. "Holmes! Come, sit down."

"I understand that you have, ah, disposed of Professor Moriarty, but what of his marksman?" Mycroft said mildly.

"Moran is still in play," Watson conceded. "But what could he do without Moriarty calling the shots?"

"Moriarty has already set his plans in motion," Holmes interrupted. "It will be an assassination, a lone gunman at close range. The assassin will follow his orders regardless of Moriarty's presence."

Mycroft nodded in agreement with the logic. "And do you know who we will be looking for?"

Holmes glanced at Sim.

"René," she whispered.

They spent some time discussing what might occur at the evening's ball. When the conversation turned to the roles each would play, it quickly developed into an argument. "I am not staying behind," Holmes insisted.

"Holmes, you would pass out on the dance floor," Watson said. "Medically speaking, it is astonishing that you can even stand right now."

"And because I can, I refuse to stay here," Holmes repeated, abruptly pushing back his chair and standing, presumably for emphasis.

His point was ruined by the sudden collapse of his knees beneath him, dropping a pale-faced Holmes onto his chair again, and it took him a moment to shake off the dizziness. "Right," he said faintly. "Where were we?"

When it came time to go downstairs for the ball, Holmes was not with them.

As soon as he was alone in the rooms, Holmes climbed out of bed and began dressing himself in the tuxedo hanging in the wardrobe--Mycroft had, as usual, thought of everything. He did well enough, at half his usual pace, until he reached the point of the fiddly buttons and the tie.

"Would you like some help?" a feminine voice asked, the speaker drawing near with a rustle of silk.

"Mrs. Watson," Holmes said without turning. "Yes, if you would be so kind." As she did up his buttons, he commented, "I half expected you to be in London."

"When your brother had to leave, he gave me the choice to go home or accompany him. Since you and John have been off on a grand adventure, I thought I'd do a little traveling of my own. But, unlike you, I have not been in any danger. Are you certain you can manage this?" she asked bluntly, her keen eyes seeing more than Holmes would have liked.

"I must," Holmes said simply.

"Then let me do something about that eye while you tell me what we will be doing."

She was a dab hand with the makeup, concealing the worst of his bruises so they would not attract undue attention. When they joined the crowd, she gently slipped her hand into the crook of his right elbow. "I will try not to jostle you," she murmured, "but I thought it best for you to have your good hand free."

"Quite right, " he agreed.

It was not long before Holmes spotted their quarry lurking in a doorway and he informed Mary even as he steered them away so Moran wouldn't recognize them. At the sound of a disturbance in the ballroom, Moran drew something from his pocket and began fiddling with his cane.

Holmes had only a moment to decide what to do. He sent Mary to ensure Moran wouldn't have a clear shot while he tried to get close enough to Moran to prevent the shot. Seconds later a pair of guards pushed through the crowd with a prisoner in tow. When Moran lifted his cane, Holmes stumbled into him as if by accident. A blur of blue in the corner of his eye indicated Mary was in position between their man and the prisoner.

When the shot fired, it was lower than intended and the dart lodged itself in Mary's voluminous skirts. The prisoner passed by unharmed. Moran, recognizing his chance had passed, tried to slip away. Holmes stepped hard on his foot and brought his left elbow up to break Moran's nose, but Moran turned away and the blow landed on his cheek instead.

After that, it didn't go so well for Holmes, but preventing Moran's escape was its own victory. He had a few successful punches, but the former soldier was in much better condition and all of his attacks struck precisely where he wanted, including the fist directed at Holmes' right shoulder.

Holmes staggered, falling to his knees, and distantly heard a gun being cocked. "Not another move," Mary said firmly, and Holmes looked up to see her behind Moran, a small gun pressed to the back of his neck. Guards were on the scene a moment later.

As soon as Moran was arrested, Mary helped Holmes rise and retreat to tend his new injuries. He tried to go to the bedroom but she steered him to the bathroom. "You need to be cleaned up," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

He sat obediently and quietly while she scrubbed his face free of blood and makeup. "You'll have matching black eyes by morning," she mused. "And he managed to reopen this gash on your cheekbone. John may need to stitch it. All right, I'm going to take off your shirt now."

Holmes only half-listened as she took stock of his injuries, exclaiming over the developing bruises on his torso. He was shivering again, as if all the heat in his body was leaking out with the sticky blood he could feel saturating the bandages on his shoulder.

"Holmes, do you need to lie down?" Mary abruptly asked, sounding alarmed.

"What? I'm all right," Holmes said, the words coming out slurred even to his ears.

"Liar. Your face is as white as the shirt you were wearing, you're shivering and sweating, and your hands are shaking. Come, I'm putting you to bed. John will have to change those bandages later."

Holmes' vision was grey around the edges as they crossed the short distance between the bathroom and his bed, but he managed it without clutching Mary's arm too tightly. Once he'd sagged onto the edge of the bed, she stepped away and, to his surprise, began unfastening her dress. "What are you doing?" he asked dumbly.

"If you think I'm going to just leave you to be miserable and cold, you're not nearly as intelligent as you claim," she said, efficiently shedding her layers and draping each item over a nearby chair.

She was wearing only her chemise when she returned to the bed. Rather than watch Watson's wife undress, Holmes had rearranged himself on the bed so he lay on his side with his back to her. He stiffened when the bed dipped as she climbed on, but then she was alongside his back and he had to admit her warmth felt very nice. He shifted, not sure how to arrange his arm to prevent bolts of agony from his shoulder, and he felt her lean up to look at what he was doing.

Then a warm arm came around his side and her hand cradled his clenched fist against his chest. He relaxed slightly, waiting for pain that never came. "Better?" she murmured.

He nodded slightly and her arm tightened in what might have been called a hug. Then he felt her lips against his nape and shivered for an entirely different reason. Sleep rose up to claim him then, and he surrendered willingly.

 

Watson had hoped to leave the ball as soon as the assassination was thwarted, but numerous dignitaries desired to thank him personally for his part in apprehending the man. By the time the tedious congratulations were concluded, Watson wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Simza had left some time earlier, after Mycroft pulled her aside for a private word; Watson suspected she was with her brother, wherever he was.

It was with weary steps that Watson climbed the seemingly interminable stairs between him and bed. He knocked lightly on the bedroom door before easing it open, calling softly, "Holmes?"

The lump on the bed did not respond. Reassured that Holmes was where he should be, Watson was about to leave for the bathroom when he noticed the blue silk in the sliver of light from the open door. He stepped inside the room and turned on the gas, just enough to examine the bed. What he thought was Holmes was Holmes with a blonde woman clinging to his back, and he could not suppress his utter shock. "Holmes?!" he repeated incredulously.

"Shush, John, he's sleeping," the woman said drowsily, peering at him over Holmes' bandaged shoulder.

"Mary? What-- How--?" Watson could not even think, so great was his surprise at finding Mary not only in Switzerland but in Holmes' bed.

"We'll talk about it in the morning," she said firmly. "Now are you coming to bed or not?"

 

Holmes woke early, when an attempt to shift positions in his sleep sent a stab of pain through his shoulder. He was stiff from remaining in the same spot for too long, but Watson and Mary were lying too close on both sides for him to shift onto his back. For a moment he wondered why Watson chose to sleep next to him rather than his wife, but dismissed it as a lack of room on that side of the bed.

Then he realized he needed to use the commode and he heaved a put-upon sigh. While he was squirming around, trying in vain to extricate himself, Mary woke up. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"I need to get up."

"Why? We don't need to be anywhere today." He just looked at her for a moment and she understood. "Shall I find a chamberpot for you?"

"I'd rather use the bathroom."

"All right, I'll move." She pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. Her hair had come free of its coif and hung loose around her shoulders and Holmes was momentarily distracted by the sight.

He averted his gaze and focused on putting his feet on the floor. "Thank you, dear," he said absently as he shuffled past. He could feel her watching him until he was beyond the doorway.

When he returned, she was sleeping next to Watson and he was able to claim the spot where she had been before.

The next time Holmes woke, he heard the low murmur of voices next to him, occasionally interrupted with the sound of kissing. Holmes rolled his eyes and started to roll over so his back was toward them, only to be halted by sudden and extreme pain. He managed not to cry out, but he couldn't hold back a reflexive gasp as he returned to his former position, his right shoulder throbbing.

"Holmes?"

"Are you all right?"

The voices spoke over each other, and were accompanied by two concerned gazes upon him, Watson turned to look at him and Mary peering over him.

"I... It's nothing," he said dismissively.

Watson gave him a doubting look. "Right," he said. "Well, then, would you like to explain to me what you were thinking last night? Mary told me that you took on Moran by yourself."

"Not by myself," Holmes objected immediately. "She was there, too."

Watson sat up and glared down at him. "You were supposed to be in bed," he said flatly.

"Moran would have escaped."

"And he has promised to be good and rest now that it's all taken care of," Mary interjected, catching Holmes' eye and gesturing for him to stay quiet. Holmes frowned at her but did not point out that he'd said no such thing.

Mollified, Watson visibly relaxed. "I'm not sure I believe you'd say something like that, Holmes, but I plan to hold you to it. We'll start by having another look at your injuries."

The weak morning light coming through the room's single small window had been enough to converse by, but was not sufficient for Watson's purposes, so Mary rose from the bed to light the lamps.

Watson's first task was peeling the bandages from Holmes' shoulder while Holmes gritted his teeth and looked away. Mary brought the basin, some water, and a cloth and carefully cleaned the new blood from around the wound while Watson tried to study it without touching it. "It should be stitched if it's going to heal properly," he said finally. "Is it possible for someone to get the things I'd need or should we have a doctor called?"

"No other doctors," Holmes insisted. "There would be too many questions. Make a list, give it to Mycroft, and it will be done."

Watson nodded. "Until I stitch you up, I don't want you to leave this bed."

The rest of the evaluation was uneventful, and Watson soon departed to make his list. Holmes waited an entire minute after Watson left to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Mary quickly intervened. "You're not going anywhere, Holmes," she said playfully, gently pushing him back down on the bed and looking him over. "But your trousers are."

Holmes clutched his trousers with his good hand. "That does not seem fair, considering you will be clothed and I will not."

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, really?" she asked with a devious look in her eyes. She shrugged off the dressing gown she'd donned when leaving the room for water, so she was once again only in her chemise. "Is that better?"

"Um," Holmes said eloquently. While part of him knew he ought to bargain for her to be naked if he was going to be, the other part of him wasn't quite used to the idea of Watson's wife baring herself for him. They had talked about their arrangement prior to the wedding, of course, but this was the first time he had been alone in her company in this sort of situation and he didn't want Watson to kill him when he returned.

Then her lips were on his and he didn't have to think anymore. He felt her hands at his waist, likely unbuttoning his trousers, but he no longer cared. He caressed the line of her jaw, stroking up until his hand was tangled in her thick hair.

He was just aware enough to hear the door open and he pushed her away clumsily.

"I've brought breakfast."

"Watson, your wife is taking advantage of me," Holmes said, craning his neck to look back toward the door.

With a sharp tug, Mary pulled off his trousers.

"She's not doing anything I wouldn't do, Holmes, and you know it," Watson said as he closed and locked the door. "Or were you hoping I'd help her?"

Holmes swallowed with some difficulty. Mary kissed him gently and tugged him back up to a sitting position. "Sit against the headboard, there. You're going to eat breakfast," she said.

While he settled himself, Watson brought the breakfast tray to the bed and both he and Mary removed the rest of their clothing. Watson pulled the nude Mary against him and murmured something in her ear; she giggled and cast a glance at Holmes before grinning at her husband. Holmes watched with curiosity as she climbed onto the bed and stretched out in the middle of it.

Watson sat next to her side and pulled the tray of food closer. "Since you both started without me, I thought I'd up the ante just a bit," he said conversationally as he started taking bits of the breakfast food and laying them out on Mary's body: slices of bacon along her ribs, a line of scrambled eggs down the middle of her torso, toast quarters marching along her collarbone.

Mary laughed nervously and tried not to squirm. "It tickles, John."

He licked some egg from her skin and then kissed her.

Holmes wasn't at all sure what to make of this newest development, so he contented himself with watching Watson and appreciating the shapes his body made while leaning over Mary.

Mary reached toward him, her fingertips skimming his leg. "You should eat, Holmes," she encouraged.

He cautiously moved closer. Leaning over like that was awkward with only one arm to support him, but he tentatively ate a few pieces of bacon and a mouthful of eggs. Just that much made him feel light-headed from the bobbing up and down, so he used his hand to retrieve a slice of toast.

When Watson had cleaned the rest of the food from Mary's body, she sat up and the three of them shared what remained. Holmes preferred this method and ate a little more, though he did not feel particularly hungry; in truth, his stomach churned unpleasantly and he had to swallow repeatedly against the feeling that he was going to be sick. He let his head fall back against the headboard and closed his eyes to shut out the spectacle Watson and Mary were putting on.

A knock on the door startled them all. Mary removed herself from Watson's lap and they both quickly donned their dressing gowns; Watson went to the door while Mary pulled the sheet over Holmes' lap.

"Doctor Watson, here are the items you requested," Holmes heard, and he opened his eyes to see Watson taking a bag and a pile of blankets from Carruthers. The nausea intensified as he recognized what was in store for him.

"Holmes?" Mary asked worriedly, cupping his cheek in her hand.

"It's nothing," he said shortly.

"You keep saying that and I don't believe a word of it."

Holmes closed his eyes rather than continue to face her sympathetic gaze. All sound receded until he heard only the rapid beating of his heart; he swallowed repeatedly, hoping he would not make a fool of himself. A cold sweat broke out on his skin and he shivered.

He felt something cool and smooth being pressed into his hands, but he didn't dare open his eyes. A faint scent of the pot's former contents registered in his mind, and the combination of that and the lingering smell of breakfast made his stomach twist violently and rapidly expel its contents.

The retching continued even in the absence of anything more to bring up, and each convulsion further strained his already aching muscles. As the fit passed, he flushed with embarrassment, feeling the wound to his pride nearly as much as the wound in his shoulder.

When the heaving was over and he slumped back against the headboard, Mary offered him a glass of water and said, "That was more than 'nothing', Holmes."

"You should lie down before you fall over," Watson said, evidently having finished his conversation, closed the door, and crossed the room while Holmes was otherwise occupied.

Mary took the chamberpot and set it on the floor. Holmes slowly and carefully shifted down the bed and onto his back, every bruise and strained muscle contributing to an ache that encompassed his whole body.

When Holmes was settled, Watson tucked towels under and around his shoulder. "I will chloroform you when I am ready to start," Watson said, patting his other shoulder.

"No chloroform," Holmes said, trying to move away from Watson.

Watson easily kept him in place with a hand on his chest. "This will hurt, and if I tried to give you enough morphine to dull that much pain it could be a fatal dose."

"No chloroform," Holmes insisted.

"Fine, have it your own way. Mary, you'll have to hold him down."

Watson had to spend the next few minutes rearranging his supplies since Mary wouldn't be able to hand him things. When he was ready, he leaned over Holmes. "Are you sure about the chloroform? Using it would be much easier on you."

"I'm sure," Holmes said.

Watson bent and kissed Holmes briefly. Holmes reached up with his left hand and held him there, returning the kiss roughly and ending it by biting Watson's lip. Watson jerked back, startled and a little angry. "Stop stalling and get on with it," Holmes said softly.

Mary climbed onto the bed and straddled Holmes, placing one hand on his left shoulder and holding his right hand with the other. "We'll have to do this without the sheet sometime," she murmured near his ear as she sat astride his groin.

Holmes did not respond, for Watson chose that moment to pour some water into and over the wound. Instead, he closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and turned his face away from Watson.

The shoulder was a mass of black bruising and the wound itself wept blood when the area was touched or when Holmes moved. It was warm and swollen and Watson had to clean it thoroughly to determine if infection had set in or if these were merely an indication that it was trying to heal.

A dousing with antiseptic followed the water and Holmes stiffened, his breathing erratic, and Mary had to strain to keep him still. Watson patted his skin dry, but Holmes did not finally pass out until Watson began probing the wound with a thin instrument.

"Good," Watson said with relief when Holmes went limp. "Mary, I need your help."

Holmes at least partially regained consciousness twice while Watson was probing and pouring more antiseptic into the wound, but he was never awake or aware long enough to struggle before he lost consciousness again. Mary patiently helped by holding the wound open with two hook-like instruments and occasionally commenting as Watson muttered to himself about the state of the wound.

Finally Watson tossed down his tools with a clatter. "I cannot stitch this. The wound itself is not one that I could mend easily as it is, and infection has already begun to set in. We will have to pack it and clean it out regularly until the infection subsides."

"Should you stitch the cut on his face?" she asked gently, carefully removing her tools from the wound and placing them on the bedside table.

"It wouldn't hurt," Watson said after a moment's examination. "But we should finish with his shoulder first."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Stay there and rip these bandages into thinner strips," he said, thrusting a handful of bandages at her. While she did that, he found a cup and poured antiseptic into it. "One strip at a time will go in there," he said, dropping the first one into the liquid, then handing her the cup. "And I will pack them into the wound." He used tongs to pull the fabric from the cup and push it into Holmes' shoulder.

For some time they worked quietly on this endeavor, until Watson was satisfied and took the cup away again. "If you would help me sit him up, I'll bandage everything." Mary inserted herself behind Holmes to help keep him upright and to assist in passing the bandages around his torso.

Watson wrapped the shoulder quite thoroughly, going under his armpit and around his chest to make it secure, then finished by wrapping the bandage so that his upper arm could not move. "That should keep him from straining it," Watson said with satisfaction.

With that completed, Watson turned his attention to Holmes' face. Mary remained seated behind Holmes, both to continue propping him up and to hold his head still against her shoulder while Watson worked. His face was angled slightly toward her; she cupped the back of his head with one hand and his jaw with the other.

It did not take long to stitch the cut, but Holmes began to wake as Watson worked. Mary rubbed his nape and whispered, "Hold still, we're almost done."

Holmes' shifting movements ceased and he sighed.

Watson tied off the last stitch and daubed the area with antiseptic again, then declared, "You're finished. For now."

Holmes turned his head slightly toward Watson but made no move to pull away from Mary. "You mean I'm not completely healed?" he quipped softly.

Watson snorted and turned away to locate something on the now-cluttered table. "No one is that good." When he turned around again, he had a syringe in his hand. It was morphine, of course, and when Holmes discovered he couldn't move his right arm, he wordlessly offered his left instead.

Mary pressed a kiss to the corner of Holmes' mouth as he started to slump against her more heavily. He tensed as if he was startled, and she slipped her arms around him, embracing him gently. "Just sleep," she encouraged, and he relaxed again, his head lolling on her shoulder and his forehead coming to rest against her neck.

Watson quietly cleaned up and left the room for a while to wash his instruments. When he returned, he crawled into bed next to Mary. "Are you comfortable enough?" he asked.

"Yes, we're fine," Mary assured him, tilting her face toward him for a kiss. He willingly obliged. Watson dropped off to sleep soon afterward, and Mary watched over both of her men while they slept. She idly imagined she might look something like a guardian angel, and decided she liked that idea, though at most she was a powerless one. Even John couldn't keep Holmes out of trouble, so how much good could she do? It was a discouraging thought.

When Watson woke, Mary looked troubled. He kissed the corner of her mouth and helped her slide out from behind Holmes without waking him. She shivered at the absence of Holmes' body heat against her bare skin, so Watson held her close and pulled the sheet over them both.

Mary sighed and clung to him. "Must he be so reckless?"

Watson chuckled ruefully. "He claims he does only what is necessary. But I think he enjoys the thrill of the things he does. I have yet to figure out how to convince him most of those things are unwise and unnecessary."

"Perhaps this time will convince him to be more careful."

"Perhaps," Watson echoed, unconvinced. He kissed her deeply and she responded hungrily, shifting onto her back. Watson covered her and they came together for only the second time since the wedding.

When it came time for luncheon, they argued briefly over whether it was better to let Holmes sleep or make him eat. Inevitably, their voices woke Holmes.

Holmes watched them for a moment, then spoke. "You could talk to me rather than about me."

There was immediate silence and both pairs of eyes fixed on him. "Well, I suppose that settles it," Mary said ruefully.

Luncheon for Holmes was a mug of soup drunk in bed; Watson and Mary ate their own more substantial repast at the small table by the window, then rejoined him in bed. Mary coaxed him into eating some toast as well before he dozed off again, comfortable and warm thanks to the warm bodies on either side of him.

He woke in time for dinner, after which Watson gave him a little more morphine to keep him through the night. He must have napped again right afterward, for the next time he opened his eyes, only Mary was present in the room. "Where is Watson?" he asked, starting to sit up but stopping when the sheet slid down his body and left him shivering.

"Your brother needed to confirm some details about Moriarty. He wanted to speak to you but John said he might know enough that they needn't wake you."

Holmes settled back down in bed and pulled the covers up as high as they would go. "It would have been less bother to let me talk to Mycroft. He will wish to speak to me regardless of what Watson says."

Mary slid under the covers beside him and chafed his cold hands with her warm ones. "Perhaps, but you know John likes to be needed and he was convinced that you shouldn't be disturbed."

"Hm. He is rather too protective sometimes."

"Because you don't have enough care for yourself," Mary burst out, then reddened. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him, then leaned down and shyly kissed him. "You must promise me something."

"I am not very good at keeping promises."

Mary growled in frustration and put two fingers over his lips. "Will you at least listen? I ask this for John's sake more than my own."

"By all means, proceed," he said when she moved her hand to cradle his cheek.

"Thank you." She took a deep breath, then said, "Your injury and all that followed has shaken John badly. You were dead, or nearly so. Please, would you be more careful?"

"I do only what I must," Holmes replied gently. "The consequences are not always in my control."

"But surely you can anticipate at least some of those consequences! All I'm asking is that you try not to get yourself killed. Avoiding injury entirely would be nice, but I know better than to expect that of you."

Holmes was silent for a moment and reached up to lay his hand over hers. Tugging it away from his cheek, he said, "My dear, I was willing to die to keep Moriarty from harming you and Watson. So you see, while I am gratified at your concern for my person, I will not make a promise that I cannot keep."

She studied his face, then nodded. "That is fair. Perhaps you would promise me something else, then."

"Perhaps," he said warily.

"Take John with you whenever you need him. If you don't take him, tell us where you're going so we know where to look if you're gone longer than you planned."

"That was two somethings," he teased lightly. "But yes, I promise."

"Thank you," she said fervently and pressed her lips to his again. This kiss was neither brief nor chaste, and Holmes returned it with no hesitation. Mary shifted closer, pressing her body against his side, and murmured, "Tell me if I hurt you," before resuming the kiss. She cradled his neck with one hand while the other caressed his body, starting at his jaw and slowly working its way down.

Holmes' hand caught hers near his hip. "No," he said softly, his fingers stroking the back of her hand gently.

Mary pulled away slightly. "Too much?"

"No," Holmes said, hesitating before he continued, "It would seem I am presently incapable of that response."

Mary had to glance down before she realized what he meant. "Oh! Oh, can I help somehow?"

"I don't think so," he mumbled, looking away from her.

"I'm sorry, I should have waited until you were more recovered."

"No, it's quite all right," he said, obviously discomfited.

Mary sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Do you think you can go back to sleep? I'm sure John would scold us both if he saw you awake at this hour."

Holmes cracked a small smile. "No doubt," he agreed.

"Is there anything you need first? A drink of water, the chamber pot?"

"No, thank you."

Mary began to slide away from him. "I'll be nearby if you need anything."

Holmes reached over with his good arm and grabbed her hand even though it required leaning on his injured shoulder. "No, stay. Please."

She met his eyes, then nodded. Wordlessly she returned to cuddling his side, careful not to jolt his bandaged shoulder. He sighed heavily and seemed to will himself to relax, but it was quite a while before his tension eased and his breathing deepened in sleep.

 

The conversation with Mycroft occurred the next morning after breakfast. Knowing there were some things Watson did not yet know and would not be pleased about, Holmes asked Watson and Mary to leave the room, which Watson steadfastly refused to do; Mary finally persuaded him that they ought to take a stroll and they left the brothers to their discussion.

It didn't take overly long, for Mycroft already knew or had inferred the major details that Holmes could relate. Even so, it was an extremely tiring hour, and Holmes spent the rest of the day in an exhausted daze, either sleeping or nearly there.

After they returned, Watson and Mary seemed to recognize his need for quiet without being asked, but they stayed within earshot of the bed. Holmes found himself plagued by thoughts of how the Moriarty situation might have played out and those scenarios followed him into his sleep, the nightmares more than once driving him to fearful wakefulness. Each time, someone was nearby to touch his hand or murmur reassuringly and thus soothe him back into sleep.

Watson gently woke him for lunch and dinner, and Holmes ate just so he would be allowed to sleep in peace again. At some point after dinner, he thought he felt them join him in bed, but it wasn't an important enough development to open his eyes to confirm.

When he woke the next morning, he still felt exhausted and weak but not in danger of falling asleep again right away. Watson and Mary were sleeping to his left; Watson's arm was hooked around his waist, with his face tucked against Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes was content to sit there quietly while they slept until he realized he had a personal matter to attend to. He started to shift toward the edge of the bed, hoping to slide out from under Watson's arm, only to feel Watson's grip tighten.

"Don't," Watson said, sounding much too awake for someone who was supposed to be sleeping.

"I need to get up," Holmes protested.

"No, you don't." Watson leaned up and stretched over him, then handed him the chamber pot.

Homes grumbled but took care of his business. After Watson set the pot down out of sight, Holmes complained, "Staying in bed is making me tired."

Watson scoffed as he tucked his arm back around Holmes' waist. "No, you're in bed because you're tired, and you're tired because you nearly died from blood loss and have yet to recover."

"I was fine before yesterday."

"You were getting by on adrenaline and willpower. That couldn't last forever."

"Why not?" Holmes questioned idly. "It was much simpler."

Watson chuckled and kissed his shoulder. "Go back to sleep. We can stay here as long as we need to."

Homes was about to protest that he didn't need to sleep yet, but he was nearly asleep before he'd even opened his mouth.

 

A week passed before Watson would let Holmes so much as sit on the edge of the bed or slowly rise to standing beside the bed. Holmes chafed at the restriction, until he tried to make it to the nearest chair without assistance and became so dizzy he nearly swooned. Watson very kindly did not comment when he found Holmes sitting in the chair and refusing to budge.

After that Holmes was never allowed to be alone while he was awake (and perhaps it extended to while he was asleep, as well, for he never woke without someone near). Somehow he didn't mind much, especially since Mary let him stand and walk if he thought he could manage it. He was usually right.

Watson had been tending Holmes' wound every day and eventually determined that the infection was gone, allowing him to finally place some stitches in the tissues to help them heal further. Holmes still refused to be chloroformed for the procedure, so he remained awake for the majority of the painful process.

He quietly stayed in bed for an entire day afterward.

After that his bandages didn't need to be changed as often, and it was far less taxing when they were, so his strength seemed to return a little more rapidly. It was only a few more days before he could rise from the bed and traverse the room without feeling light-headed, and a few more after that before he could venture about the suite at will.

He still tired quickly, however, and continued to nap during the day in addition to sleeping longer than usual at night. Watson and Mary were his constant companions, and somehow he didn't mind their company. If it were anyone else, he would find the imposition grating, but he had long been comfortable with Watson's presence, and now that extended to Mary as well.

They were often absorbed in one another, of course--if it weren't for his presence, this could be considered their belated honeymoon--yet one or both of them always noticed when he tried to slip out of the room to give them some privacy. They often coaxed him to join them, but he always demurred. A large part of his refusal had to do with a fear of embarrassing himself if his body failed to respond again, but he also reasoned that they needed some time to themselves before he imposed on them.

Which wasn't to say that he avoided all contact. Rather, he leaned into Watson's touch when Watson helped him stand or dress and especially when Watson slipped into the bathtub behind him under the pretense of helping wash his back and hair. Mary would sit at one end of the settee and invite him to stretch out with his head in her lap, then she would stroke her fingers through his hair, often putting him to sleep in the process. And Holmes especially liked being in bed with a Watson on either side; it was warm and comfortable despite the occasional knee or elbow pressing a little too hard into him.

One morning Holmes woke early. He was on his back and surrounded by Watsons, which was always a pleasant way to wake. Watson lay beside him, snoring, with only his knee touching the side of Holmes' leg. Mary, on the other hand, was pressed up against Holmes with almost her entire body, her head resting on his left shoulder, an arm flung across his chest, and a knee tucked between his legs.

Holmes took note of all this before becoming aware that his body was responding to their presence in a way it had failed to do earlier. His first feeling was relief that he was still capable of that most basic male response. His second feeling was annoyance, for he did not want to wake them but he couldn't manage to relieve himself with his bad arm and his left arm was trapped under Mary's body with his hand cupping her very well-shaped buttock; he gave it a squeeze just because he could.

Mary sighed and shifted, grasping a handful of Holmes' nightshirt in her fist and tugging on it. She sighed again and Holmes could feel her breath ghosting over his skin despite the nightshirt. He shivered slightly and stroked as much of her thigh and hip as he could reach. When his fingers caught the edge of her rucked-up nightgown, he tugged a little more and slipped his fingers underneath it to caress her skin instead.

Mary sighed again and released his nightshirt to lay her palm flat on his chest instead. "Good morning," she said, leaning up just enough to look at him. She watched him as she dragged her fingernails over one of his nipples; he arched into her hand but managed not to give voice to the strangled noise that wanted to escape his throat.

Her hand journeyed down his chest until her fingers teased at the fabric around his groin. "Ah, so it's a very good morning, I see," she said with amusement. She leaned over and kissed him gently. "Would you like some help with that?"

Holmes nodded jerkily. Mary's hand left his body and a moment later her fingers were combing through his hair.

"What would you like?"

Holmes had no answer to that question, not having been in this particular situation ever before. Were she Watson, there were certain things he'd suggest--though a few of them were eliminated by his physical condition--but with her . . . "I don't know," he said finally.

Mary did not seem surprised by his response. "Do you trust me?"

Holmes had to pause a moment as the parallel between her words and his words to her on the ill-fated train struck him. "Yes," he said at last.

If she recalled their earlier exchange, she gave no indication. "If you need me to stop, just say so."

Holmes nodded jerkily. She pulled away to sit up and wriggle out of her nightgown, then she helped him lift his hips and shift his nightshirt up to expose his groin. When he was settled comfortably again, she knelt astride him, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him thoroughly. Holmes' hands explored her body while his mind was occupied by what their mouths were doing; when Mary finally pulled away, one of his hands was on her hip while the other was groping her left breast.

Then one of her hands was on his cock, holding it still while she lowered herself upon it. This time Holmes wasn't able to hold back his groan, and his lungs seemed to stop working afterward, for he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Watson snorted beside them and abruptly sat up, evidently woken by Holmes' groan. He looked at them both with an expression of sleepy befuddlement before he understood what was going on and broke into a grin. "What, you weren't going to wait for me?" he teased. He kissed Mary, then listened silently while she murmured into his ear. Then Watson's attentions moved to Holmes, his mouth first descending upon the nearest nipple, then shifting up to Holmes' mouth. At the same time, Mary began rocking gently and Holmes' ability to focus on any one thing--or anything, really--was utterly shattered until after he'd reached his completion. Only when he roused again with one Watson on either side, but this time with a feeling of satisfaction and exhaustion, could he observe and absorb what was going on around him.

Evidently Mary had removed herself from his lap mere moments before, for his skin still felt the chill of her warmth being withdrawn. Watson was on his knees on Holmes' other side and quite aroused; once Mary had settled herself, Watson carefully climbed over Holmes and joined her. What followed was entirely expected, so Holmes paid little attention. He was nearly asleep by the time they finished and Watson sagged onto the bed between Holmes and Mary.

Mary's voice broke their silence some minutes later. "Was that all right, Holmes?"

"Hm, yes, quite," Holmes said eloquently after an awkward silence in which he only belatedly realized she was talking to him.

"John, is he always like this afterward, or have we actually struck him speechless?"

"He's usually quieter after, but not this quiet," Watson said. "We'll have to try it again to see if it's you or if he's just tired."

Holmes knew which it was, of course, but who was he to turn down an opportunity to experiment?

And experiment they did, numerous times during the week that followed, always making sure to accommodate Holmes' injury. Eventually only Holmes could remember the original question and it didn't matter to any of them anymore anyway.

On one occasion after a particularly successful test in their experiment, Holmes voiced a thought that had been bothering him for several days. "We ought to return to London."

"Yes," Watson agreed after a moment. "Now that I'm convinced you aren't going to die on us during the trip, we can go."

"Do you tire of our company, Holmes?" Mary asked lightly.

"Not at all. I merely find myself concerned about what Nanny has done with the rooms in my absence."

Watson snorted. "She's cleaned them up, I hope. You are utterly hopeless at keeping things neat."

"That's what you were there for."

Mary interrupted lest they continue on that topic indefinitely, as she had no doubt that they could. "When shall we leave, then? And will Holmes come home with us or return to his rooms straightaway?"

Holmes looked to Watson for an answer.

"The day after tomorrow?" Watson suggested. "And Holmes can stay with us for a few days after, since I'll want to keep an eye on his condition after the strain of traveling." Watson looked at Holmes then, and he understood it was a pretense to allow them this unrestricted access to one another for a few days more.

"Yes, that would be nice, to have a little time to adjust," Mary agreed, her hand finding Holmes' and squeezing it reassuringly. "Well, then let us make the most of the next two days."

Holmes knew he should be grateful for their consideration, and he was, but he knew that being subject to public scrutiny once more would necessarily change their interactions and he wasn't sure their resolve to include him would hold true. Inevitably there would be offspring and . . .

He deliberately stopped that line of reasoning before it progressed further and redirected his thoughts. For now they were alone and happy, Moriarty and his second in command were defeated, and he was still alive though not undamaged. It could have turned out much worse. Though, of course, he would need to follow up on the rest of Moriarty's organization to ensure it was not a threat . . .

"Oh, dear, it looks like he's thinking again," Mary said.

"We can't have that," Watson agreed.

Teeth abruptly clamped onto the flesh around his nipple and he emitted a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squawk. Watson was laughing when he sat up again. "That wasn't very sporting," Holmes grumbled.

"I will make it up to you under one condition: you will not think about anything related to London or what you'll need to do until we leave."

"Until we leave where? This room? The hotel? The city?"

"How silly of me not to specify precisely. Until we leave the hotel."

"That seems a very unequal bargain. You will do one thing while I have to refrain from something for two days."

"I will make it very worth your while," Watson promised in the husky voice that never failed to send a thrill up Holmes' spine and a rush of blood to his cock.

"Agreed," Holmes said quickly.

He didn't regret it.


End file.
